Skin
by TheElementalWitch
Summary: Oneshots, drabbles, and whatever else I come up with.  A WillowWarren collection.  Don't like WillowWarren?  Don't read!
1. Soap

Please Read! This is set in my imaginary post Season 7 universe. The Slayers have relocated after Sunnydale went bye-bye but haven't spilt into groups yet. Warren had been brought back by a guilty Willow and (as if you can't figure it out yourself) they've gotten together. If you don't like the pairing don't read and don't waste my time by telling my I'm sick or demented or whatever.

I realize I didn't actually add the words Willow and Warren in the text, and there's only three lines of dialogue, but I'm playing with writing styles right now so bear with me.

I don't own Willow, Warren, or any of the characters of Buffy. If I did the Trio would have taken over Sunnydale long ago.

* * *

She wakes to the sound of his panting, a harsh gasping that seems strangled as it passes his lips. In the light of the pair of blood red candles she always keeps burning, she can see his glassy brown eyes darting around wildly. He is a man reduced to a terrified puppy, and it's all her fault.

He has these dreams on occasion, usually when he is stressed or if they've had an argument. From what she's been able to piece together from the gibberish that used to follow these warped memories it's always the same. Running blindly into the darkness, the flash of an axe, merciless black eyes, pain ripping through his chest…and his skin. His skin peeling away as he watches, revealing the muscle hidden underneath inch by inch. It hurts like hell but he can't move, can't scream.

The cream colored sheets rustle slightly as he shifts to grab fistfuls of cloth, trying to anchor himself in the waking world. She wants nothing more than to reach over and embrace his trembling form, maybe even kiss the phantom pain away, but that isn't what he needs. Instead she reaches over and grips his arm, applying a gentle but unyeilding pressure until he is forced to release the Egyptian cotton.

She remembers how he did this for her the first time she had her own nightmares as she pushes back the covers, knocking his Mr. Spock comforter to the floor. The memories of the hellish night were scattered, but she still recalled the way he looked when he flew into her room, eyes wide with a different kind of fear as they searched for the source of her scream. He follows her now the way she did back then, unseeing and unresponsive to the world around him. He's still trapped in his head.

They pad through the halls quietly out of habit. No one is in the house except a few of the younger slayers who were sleeping off a bad bought of flu. The icy wood feels like needles jabbing into her feet with each step. She hates herself at times like these, if only she had learned to control the magic sooner…

She shoves him gently into the bathroom, locking the door tight behind them. Andrew had walked in on the pair once while she tried to wake her lover from his living nightmare; needless to say it had been a life lesson for all parties involved.

Undressing him is quick work. Due to their relative privacy that led to certain acts earlier that evening he is clad only in boxer shorts emblazoned with a symbol she vaguely remembers him explaining to her once. Stripping off the Boba Fett shirt she stole from him almost four months ago, she turns on the shower. He blinks as the sound of falling water slapping against the white tile fills the small space, but there is no real recognition.

Once steam begins to fog up the mirror she works up the nerve to propel him into the stream of warm water. The reaction is instantaneous. Strong hands grip her shoulders and her back is slammed into wall of the shower, shockingly cold compared to the steam filled air. His pupils are flickering rapidly, processing his sudden return to reality and he clenches his hands so hard she thinks she might have bruises in the morning.

"I'm sorry baby." He murmurs suddenly, releasing the iron grip and moving to give her some space, looking like an embarrassed child.

She feels the corners of her lips lifting up as she watches his already mussed up hair plaster itself to his head as his body is bombarded with water. "Shh," she puts a finger to his lips, "It's okay."

The bar of soap looks relatively new and she's relieved to see it's of the scentless variety. She refuses to share a bed with a man who smells like fruit punch ever again, no matter how distressed he is. Holding the bar under the flow she marvels at it's pearly sheen, as though someone cut a chunk of moonlight into an oval and stamped Dove on it.

She washes him from the feet up, rubbing his skin tenderly with hands covered in rich, milky soap suds. It's a comforting ritual for both of them and she can feel him relaxing as she massages her way up his body. There's nothing sexual about the act, it's just another way for them to cope.

By the time they reach his hair they are both cross legged on the ground to give her better access to his dark roots. There had been a time when he would have been nervous to have his back to her, but now he seemed to lean into her touch. She rests a cheek on his head, the red-blonde of her hair clashing with the inky blackness with a kind of beauty only found in the comparison of polar opposites.

They were not and had never been opposites. If anything they were more alike than they would have ever guessed. They had both started out shy and geeky, but as time went by their paths had forced them to turn into something they didn't really want to become.

That was why he was here in the first place. She had been trying to fix things, to change back into the mousy girl of yesteryear. It hadn't worked but she knew Tara would have been proud to see how much progress she had made. If her slightly faded but forever treasured memories of the timid Wicca were still true, then her girlfriend would have been happy to see her like this. Content to forgive Tara's accidental killer and even see the side of him most people ignored, limiting her use of magic simply because the impulse was gone. Why bother with a magic high when she could spend time with him.

The only noise in the room was that of the small jets of water being spit from the showerhead. There is nothing to talk about. It had been months since they'd discussed the events that had led up to this moment. His death and resurrection were locked away in a corner file cabinet in their minds. The Scoobies reaction had gone from fury to a reluctant acceptance like the one usually associated with Andrew. Any words of comfort or concern would seem superficial.

His fingers reach up to stroke her sodden hair, gently untangling the knots caused by sleep. Wrapped up in their own little bubble they didn't notice as the time passes, they're too far gone in their private form of Zen. She wishes it could be like this forever, just the two of them together, lost in their own thoughts.

"Hey!" Someone pounds fiercely on the door, the woods begins to creak threateningly. The hunters are home. "I'm covered in green shit would you hurry up so I can shower!"

He tilts his head back, smirking, and their lips press together. Oh well, they're almost out of hot water anyway.

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There you go. Please review! Depending on the feedback I might continue with a series of Willow/Warren drabbles and such. 


	2. White Rabbit

Disclaimer: ...Come on people I'm shipping an impossible canon pairing. What do you think?!

This is usually the part of my authors note where I beg for reviews. However, this doesn't appear to be working so to put it bluntly: just read and review. I'm one of those pathetic people who posts and then check their e-mail every ten seconds to see if they got feedback. One word or novels I don't care, just talk to me people.

* * *

"Now as you can see I've made this cut here," a large, calloused hand appears on the TV screen, gesturing at the line of crimson that stained the ghostly fur of the deceased creature. "When you skin a rabbit you want to make sure it comes off nice and cle-"

The sound dies abruptly as the pale girl presses the power button instinctively, a wave of nausea rolling through her stomach. She watches the picture waver and shrink into a pinpoint of bright white before disappearing, frozen in her spot of the faded blue sofa. What had she expected would be on the Discovery Channel this late at night but a survival show? This was one of the worst kinds too, complete with parental warnings about blood and violence. Willow had assumed they meant he cut himself on a plant or something.

Willow stands shakily, ignoring the whining of the girls around her. One would think that killing vampires, demons, and other nastiness on a regular basis would curb their bloodlust, but apparently not. If watching helpless woodland creatures being slaughtered and skinned was entertaining so be it. It was their own damned prerogative anyhow.

Xander reaches out a hand as she drifts past his perch on the arm of one of the dilapidated chairs. He gives her slender digits a reassuring squeeze before releasing her fingers. It's like a secret message, "We'll talk later, when you're ready." hidden within a simple gesture. No one takes notice of it except them; the TV has already been turned back on.

On the way to her goal, Willow passes through the kitchen and is immediately assaulted with the over whelming scent of cinnamon sugar. It makes her stomach roil furiously. When he glances up from his freshly made muffins, the look of euphoria on Andrew's face is dropped for an expression of innocent shock. It still surprises her sometimes how a boy who killed his best friend so willingly could still look so angelic. "W-W-Willow?!" He backs away from her, fear and worry written across his face as he catches sight of the look in her eyes. She flies past, suddenly unable to keep from running.

Willow tumbles past several people in her continued rush as she tears through the halls, searching blindly. Buffy actually makes as though to grab her retreating form but thinks better of it. Drawing back her hand and biting her lip, the Slayer watches her best friend run as though hell hounds were on her heels.

It's more a lucky chance than the witch's actually knowledge of the layout of the large house in which they've taken up residence that Willow finds the room. Books are scattered everywhere in varying degrees of abuse and disorder. Giles was going to have a fit when he got back London in a week and saw the state the library was in. He was the only one in the house who actually bothered to cleaning up after late night research sessions, the rest of them simply crashed.

She begins to regret their total lack of respect for the Dewy Decimal system as she tries to find what she needs. After the incident with the Gentlemen the Scoobies had begun to hoard any book that even mentioned magic or monsters so she knows it has to be here somewhere. It is a fairytale of sorts after all.

She begins by running her fingers along the spines of the books still on the shelves, looking for the familiar gold cursive. When nothing turns up she kneels down in the largest pile of books, her heart beating frantically as her adrenaline builds. Willow doesn't know whether to scream or cry and she begins to throw the discarded tomes behind her, not caring as they smack the opposite wall.

Within minutes her fingers find themselves grasping the musty azure carpet. "No, no, no," large tears form in the corners of her eyes, the hazel-green of her irises darkening as she scrambles around the floor. "No, no, NO, NO, NO!"

Her hair is caught in the whirlwind as hundreds of books begin to spiral through the air, creating a cyclone of paper as they shred in the intense wind. Willow stands slowly, feeling a cold rush of shock as her body adjusts itself to the rush of potent magic. "Find!"

"Whoa!" He jumps away from the open door, unnoticed by the room's only occupant. His mouth feels dry as the Sahara and ice begins to trickle through his veins as he watches a book fly out of the storm, miraculously untouched by crackling energy that fills the air.

Warren swallows hard, fidgeting as he tries to make a decision. One of the Slayers had burst into the basement while he was designing a new program that Buffy wanted for her robotic counterpart, recently repaired so it could be used as a decoy. From the way she'd described it he'd assumed Willow was having a hormonal imbalance or something else that required some kind words and chocolate, magical relapse he can't handle. Backing away slowly he presses himself against the opposite wall, licking his lips nervously.

The wind dies down and she sinks to her knees, sobbing hysterically. Confused heads have appeared in doorways by now, but they disappear as Warren moves mechanically into the room. The blood pounds in his ears and he prepares to run the other direction at a moments notice, no one in this house would be able to handle a pissed Willow on a magic high. Xander's trick had worked once but the ex-super villain is in serious doubt of the plan's lifespan.

A shaking hand is placed gently on her shoulder and Warren stoops next to her, his voice husky with confusion and a badly covered hint of fear, "B-baby?" His shadow falls over Willow as he leans in to read the leather cover of the unopened book. "Alice in Wonderland?"

"The rabbit…" Willow's tear filled eyes turn to look into his as she takes a shuddering breath, "The white rabbit." He flinches at the sight of the smooth pools of black marble, but seems to relax slightly as they swirl back into "Willow".

Warren gives her a weak grin, "You mean the pocket watch dude, "I'm late, I'm late"?"

Her giggles sounds more like weak hiccups than anything else, "Yeah. And the little waistcoat…" Willow's tears aren't stopping and small drops stain the pages as she riffles through the thick sheets of paper, mindless of the intricate illustrations that decorate each page. "I can't remember."

"Remember what?" His hand presses over hers, stopping her movements, and Warren's other arm snakes around her waist. Willow is forced to pause in her actions as fingers tighten around her wrist.

"I-I can't remember if he dies." She struggles against his grip but the pressure increases instantly and Willow stops to prevent real pain. "…He does, doesn't he…"

She sounds so miserable Warren isn't sure what to say. Instead he shifts until he is sitting properly on the floor and pulls the miserable girl's small frame into his lap as though she were a child. "Let's find out."

Willow's lips begin to twitch ever so slightly and she allows him to lead her as they continue through the pages together.

It takes almost three hours to scour the book thoroughly for the answer, but they enjoy every minute of it. "So he hopped off into the sunset and lived happily ever after." Willow's voice holds a note of content and she settles back into Warren's arms, absorbing the warmth.

Setting the book to the side he begins to kiss her neck in silent agreement.

Three weeks later she finds a box on her bed. Warren had left for Rome that morning to help set up the security system in a new Slayer center that had been in the works since they had destroyed the Sunnydale Hellmouth. Willow's proud of how much effort he had put into helping them since his resurrection, and he had been encouraging Andrew to do the same. For all their bumbling when they had been Buffy's "arch-nemesises", the pair had proved to be valuable assets to the Slayer operation.

Wrapped rather messily in blue tissue paper and topped with a lopsided bow that appeared to be made out of electrical wire the package looked innocent enough, but Willow's Scooby sense kicked in immediately. Picking it up gingerly she looks at it from all angles before retrieving a pair of scissors and slicing away the wrapping neatly, pushing up the lid of the box with one handle.

It was rabbit, complete with a specialized waistcoat and a miniature golden pocket watch curled near one paw. Lifting it tenderly for its cardboard prison Willow grins and sets it on bed. It blinks at her as she tucks the watch into its front pocket. Cheerfully she addresses the creature, "There you go Mr. White Rabbit, be free! Hop 'til you drop!"

The pink nose twitches for a millisecond and it turns to look at her blankly. Her own nose wrinkles in confusion, "Oh…you don't want to hop? That's okay then." She's surprised by the softness of its snowy hide as she strokes it reassuringly. It reacts eagerly to her touch, pressing itself against her skin in a manner that would have been more appropriate for a puppy, but that's not what matters. He might not be the greatest at talking about his feelings, but her boyfriend really did know how to make her feel better.

Late that night a blissful Willow finds herself sleeping with the gift wrapped loosely in her arms, its tiny mechanical heart beat thrumming gently against her palm.

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Don't ask me for an explanation about the whole rabbit thing, I'm not quite sure where it came from anyway. If you have any insight feel free to tell me about whatever psychological whatnot I accidently tapped into. I tried my best to stay IC but I'm working off of clips I get off of Youtube so pointers coughorwhereIcangetfreedownloadscough are appreciated. Also apoligies about the grammar or speeling, I'm editing this at 2 in the morning.


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